


D5

by srsly_yes



Series: The Wingman [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-10
Updated: 2008-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:33:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/srsly_yes/pseuds/srsly_yes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friendship, blindness and a vending machine. Why should House be the only one who suffers?</p>
            </blockquote>





	D5

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** House MD is in a class of it’s own, I just borrow from time to time. Don’t own, never will.  
> **A/N:** This is set in a future season.
> 
> Originally a one-shot, this now becomes a prequel or prologue to The Wingman.

.

The glare from the fluorescents belied the late hour. The daytime noise from squeaking rubber soled shoes and visiting relatives bubbling with mock cheer had dwindled by late evening. The second floor was occupied by a handful of people. Just a sprinkling of overtaxed nurses, an attending, a stubborn family member who wouldn’t take the hint from either the nurse or the patient that visiting hours were over, and a couple of doctors finishing up paper work from earlier that day.

The tapping of a cane could clearly be heard echoing down the second floor corridor.

It wasn’t the solid thump of the infamous cane that struck terror in the medical staff.  
   
This one made a softer more unobtrusive sound that subliminally reminded those working on the floor that they were caregivers, and like a bird’s mating call drew them to the side of the person that wielded it, asking if they could help. Most of the time their offers were waved away with the grace of a seasoned diplomat.

The door was open to House’s office as he sat in the dark with only the light from his monitor illuminating his face. His perpetual rough shadow would have a shadow of its own if he didn't go home soon. His blue eyes were becoming dry and bloodshot as he stared at the display. He heard the tapping, and tried to smother the sound by clicking faster on the keyboard. It was working until he realized he was no longer engaged in a duet.

He stopped. He listened. He heard nothing. Silence.

Finally there was the chatter of coins falling one by one into a metallic receptacle. A pause. Then, a loud ratchet squawked, and there was the sound of regurgitating metal.

Like the instructions on a shampoo bottle, the noise repeated again.

As the clink of coins began for a third time, House growled and shook his head as if he received a slap. This morning he had overheard Kutner complaining to a blandly disinterested Taub that the prices on the candy machine went up.

House muttered a curse as he stood up and propelled himself forward with his cane. He hustled down the long hall to rescue the innocent victim from vending machine abuse.

He came upon Wilson holding loose change in one hand, touching and counting the coins with the other.

“If the salt from the top row doesn’t kill you, the sugar from the other four will.”

“Uh huh.” Wilson didn’t turn around to look at House. It would do neither of them any good. “You won’t be so cynical when the sugarless gum is replaced in E5 and 6 with Vicodin.”

House wasn’t surprised that Wilson memorized the whole damn layout. About a month ago he saw Cuddy talking with the deliveryman who loaded the dispensers. She tried to be subtle, but he saw the folded cash that passed from her palm to the man's with the embroidered badge over his breast pocket. Since then, the array of snacks never went AWOL nor migrated from their assigned rows and numbers.  
   
House dropped a nickel and dime into Wilson’s outstretched palm of coins. “All the prices went up fifteen cents.”

“Ah, the one interoffice memo I didn’t read…” There was a slight trace of bitterness in the quiet voice.

House looked Wilson over from the slightly overgrown hair to his mildly scuffed wingtips, and tried a new tack, “How about we blow this popsicle stand? We’re off tomorrow. We can get the ‘vette and head down tonight to Atlantic City. You can win enough on the slot machines to buy hundreds of ‘Baby Ruth’s.’”

“And if I lose, I could always make it back by standing on a street corner holding a tin cup and peddling pencils. What I need and want now is a 'Payday.' I need a sugar rush so I can finish dictating my notes before leaving.”

He reached for the button on the top row, slid down until it stopped at the fourth row, then trailed over the round concave knobs until it touched D5. He was about to press the button when a smooth shaft of wood knocked his hand away.

“You don’t want to do that. The candy bar is hung up on the spiral. Nothing is going to fall down.”

Wilson hissed under his breath, “Damn vending machine.”  Three words that betrayed an underground atomic test that was counting down to detonation.

Keeping his voice even, “Looks like several suckers were out of luck today, assorted chips defying gravity on A1, 2 and 4. Cookies hung out to dry on C2, an abandoned candy bar on D3, and of course your D5 nut job.” It was a small lie, but in his imagination he could see the digital display in his friend’s head ticking to a halt at 00:02 seconds.

There was resignation, but no anger in the question, “What is available?”

House released a trial balloon, “D6.”

“Skittles. Why, that just happens to be…your favorite. Isn’t it?

“I’m entitled to my opinion. A share holder with nearly a twenty percent investment.”

“Which entitles you to?”

“Eighty percent of any candy that Wilson Corp acquires.”

Once more, coins dove down the hungry metallic gullet, and Wilson’s hand passed over the pattern of buttons until D6 was depressed. His hand lingered as the motor whirred and released the small package to the tray below. Pushing the door open with a one-two move, he swept the pan and tossed the candy in House’s direction, pursing his lips in satisfaction when House caught the bag with a crunch.

House pocketed the candy, and looked around the silent hallway checking for signs of life before asking, “Want a lift?”

Wilson nodded, collapsed his cane and tucked it under his left arm before House guided the right onto his own upper arm. They matched each other step for step as they walked in the direction of the oncologist’s office.

 

The two friends never needed more than one cane in the past, and it was unnecessary now when they walked nearly shoulder-to-shoulder.

Some things never change.


End file.
